


Fate Goes Ever As It Must

by PepperF



Category: Pangur Bán Series - Fay Sampson, The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Crossover, F/M, Nuns, and also some illuminated manuscripts, because I mean, but look, definitely a weird way to introduce myself to t100 fandom, history nerd boner for King Alfred's literacy drive, magical talking cats, there's a talking cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 14:56:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9240275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperF/pseuds/PepperF
Summary: Pangur is a poor storyteller, because he tends to get distracted or bored halfway through, but he does have some good tales. He tells Bellamy all about the Welsh witches who bred him to carry a curse for them, and Niall, the monk who rescued him, and Princess Finnglas, who took him on adventures, and how Pangur finally wound up in an abbey in East Anglia. He's not sure how much of it is bullshit, but when he asks Pangur how old he is, the cat just shakes his head and says he doesn't know. It's a little frustrating, but he's not sure what else he expected from a talking cat.His favourite part of every visit, though, is when Sister Clarke takes him through to her private study, where she works in peace on the more elaborate pages and more complex lettering. She hands him the ones they've finished and assembled into books since his last visit, and lets him walk his way through the work, while she sits in silence and watches his reactions. When he's had time and silence to sufficiently absorb the most recent pages, she pours him a glass of whichever wine or mead he's brought with him—picked up during his travels around the country—and they talk.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The 100 / Pangur Bán series crossover, from the series of books by Fay Sampson. You don't need to have read them to understand this - basically it's set in medieval England and there's a talking cat. This fic also features my shameless fangirling over King Alfred. This is definitely the weirdest way I've ever introduced myself to a new fandom.
> 
> Thank you Bethany for reading this over and mostly just laughing. ;) 
> 
> Oh, and if you're familiar with the 2009 animated movie _The Secret of Kells_ , this is a different Pangur Bán, but they're inspired by the same source, a poem written by a 9th century Irish monk about his cat.

He doesn't know why it's not the magical talking cat that surprises him. " _You_ painted these?"

The black-robed nun eyes him suspiciously, and then exchanges a look with a small white cat—which, in retrospect, should have been a clue. Cats don't normally exchange meaningful looks with people. "Yes," she says, but it's more like a question. She carefully puts down her paintbrush, and turns the page towards him, the latest masterpiece. The paint is still wet, so he doesn't trace his hands over it like he wants to—like he usually does when he has one of the gospels that come from this order. He wonders how much of it was hers.

"It's lovely," he breathes, almost afraid to talk too loudly near the delicate brushwork. His fingers hover over the tiny pinpricks in the vellum, and a delicate tracery of tiny red dots of ink, outlining the next piece. This is the underlying structure for knots that she'll illustrate with leaves and birds and people, intricate details that he can't even begin to imagine.

When he finally drags his eyes away, she's full-on beaming, pink cheeks rounded by the close hold of the starched wimple. "Thank you."

"She modeled the cat after me," says the cat.

"I can see that," nods Bellamy, eyes drawn back down to the beautiful artwork, the sleek white cat crawling in and out of the branches of a capital letter M, hunting a mouse on the other side of the page. The animals are so full of movement and detail, it looks as if the cat will pounce at any moment, making the mouse scurry away across the desk.

He looks at the nun again. Although it's hard to tell beneath the multiple layers of heavy woollen cloth, she seems very young, not much older than the novice who pointed him towards the building. If he'd not seen her producing the fine lines with her brush, he would have doubted she was truly the person he'd been sent to find. "You're Sister Clarke?"

She nods. "And this is Pangur Bán," she says, waving at the cat. 

"It's an honour, Sir Cat."

"Yes, I'm sure," agrees Pangur, not looking up from a foot that apparently needs a thorough cleaning right now. 

Sister Clarke is watching him closely. "You're not surprised?"

Bellamy shrugs. "A cat's never spoken to me before," he says, "but they're all assholes, so. No offense," he adds, to Pangur, who rolls onto his side to get a better angle around himself.

"Mmr," he says, between licks. Quite frankly, Bellamy's had better conversations with his (entirely non-magical) horse.

Sister Clarke looks amused. "What can I do for you...?"

"Bellamy. Ealdorman Bellamy," he adds, with a grimace. The title is still new and ill-fitting. "I have a commission for you. Well. For your whole order, I suppose. From the king."

\---

Sister Clarke, it turns out, is much more high-born than Bellamy, for all the land and titles he now possesses. She claims direct descent from the Kentish royal line, but she left when the Danes came, and sought a new life of a different kind, elsewhere. She found it in the abbey, amongst her paint and brushes, but Bellamy can't help thinking that she seems restless. She's certainly keen to sink her teeth into the challenge he brings: copies of Pope Gregory's _Pastoral Care_ for every bishopric, translated from Latin into English by King Alfred himself. The King has set his own smiths to making æstels, reading pointers of gold and enamel that will be sent with each manuscript. It's partly a show of power and benevolence, and partly a command: knowledge is to be spread widely and freely, and not jealously guarded by an educated elite. The clergy are to read the instructions for how to care for their flocks in the plain English that all can understand. Alfred means to shed the twin lights of literacy and mercy across his kingdom.

It's Alfred's project, but it's Bellamy's passion—and Clarke catches his enthusiasm, her face alight with excitement whenever he calls in to check her progress. She leads him through the scriptorium, showing him the stacks of pages in progress, and introducing him to the monks, nuns and novices who are doing the bulk of the work. Their materials and the livelihood of the abbey have been funded generously by Alfred, so the number of people under Clarke's tutelage increases every time he visits. 

Over time, the mass of surplices and shaven heads resolves itself into people, and Bellamy begins to learn a few of the individuals who stick around: John, sullen and ascetic, with a tendency to scrawl sarcastic comments in margins; Jasper and Monty, novices when he first encounters them, always whispering together instead of working; Wells, kind and patient, whose writing is the cleanest and clearest of all; Finn, doing seven years' silent penance for some unknown crime; Emori, who acts like she'd rather be anywhere else, but who is still there every time he returns. And others in the abbey: Abbot Thelonious, solemn and self-righteous; Marcus, Master of Novitiates, stern but even-handed; Jackson, the abbey's healer, gentle and a little fragile; and Sinclair, who is not a monk but a smith, who has been given a space to work within the abbey's safe walls in exchange for his skills.

And Pangur, of course. Pangur is a poor storyteller, because he tends to get distracted or bored halfway through, but he does have some good tales. He tells Bellamy all about the Welsh witches who bred him to carry a curse for them, and Niall, the monk who rescued him, and Princess Finnglas, who took him on adventures, and how Pangur finally wound up in an abbey in East Anglia. He's not sure how much of it is bullshit—the bit with the dolphin and the mermaids is pretty farfetched, and it all seems like a great deal more than one little cat could have achieved in a lifetime. But when he asks Pangur how old he is, the cat just shakes his head and says he doesn't know. It's a little frustrating, but he's not sure what else he expected from a talking cat.

His favourite part of every visit, though, is when Sister Clarke takes him through to her private study, where she works in peace on the more elaborate pages and more complex lettering. She hands him the ones they've finished and assembled into books since his last visit, and lets him walk his way through the work, while she sits in silence and watches his reactions. He can always tell when he comes across one of Clarke's own pages. Each version is unique—different animals, plants, people, every illuminated letter done differently, a riot of life and color—and her mischievous sense of humor shines through them all. 

When he's had time and silence to sufficiently absorb the most recent pages, she pours him a glass of whichever wine or mead he's brought with him—picked up during his travels around the country—and they talk.

At first, they talk about the manuscripts—the challenges and rewards of her work, and his experiences in distributing the finished copies. But gradually, as they begin to know each other, their conversation broadens. She's seen a small part of the world, the stretch up the east coast, from her home in Kent to the abbey in East Anglia. Bellamy fills in more of it for her, telling her of his travels from Northumbria to Wales, and even once to Eire. His own lands are a few miles westwards of the abbey, away from the sea and the immediate danger of raiders, and he tells her about the home he's building and the people under his protection.

She's the only person he knows, in those first years, to whom he can speak about his struggle to understand his place in the world. He wasn't raised to be a leader of men, he found his way there as a man grown, through prowess in war and then through the passion for literacy he shares with Alfred. He can talk to Miller, of course, but Miller has no more experience of leadership than Bellamy himself. Clarke, however, was raised with the expectation that she would marry well, maybe even royally, and her parents held the firm belief that a wife should know as much as her husband about ruling their lands. And, remarkably, she seems happy to share that knowledge with him.

He tells her of his worries about leaving his sister at home whilst he travels the length and breadth country on behalf of the king. The work he undertakes is dangerous in the unstable kingdom, restlessly united under the rule of one man for the first time, and he fears one day he might never return. Octavia has given up begging him to take her with him. If the world were just and fair, Bellamy would have been the girl and Octavia the boy, so that she could be out in the world, seeking glory in war and adventure, and he could be building a home. But it is not, and they have their roles to play.

Clarke listens, and doesn't offer reassurance. Instead, she offers practical advice about how to fortify his home against the invading Danes, or anyone else who might come. She suggests what his household needs in order to be self-sufficient behind its strong walls, what skilled workmen he should employ, what to look for in a healer, how to instill discipline in his men while he's away on long journeys—everything he needs to know. Oftentimes she works as they talk, and he's grown familiar with the scratch of a quill or soft brushstrokes comfortably filling the pauses in conversation.

The day he comes to collect the final manuscript, she slides a smaller book across her desk to him. He takes it, raising his eyebrows, but she just waves for him to open it. He tugs at the strap that holds it together, and opens the book to find many colorful pages. He scans the illustrations next to each item, and then stares up at her. She smiles brightly, pleased at his stunned expression.

"For you. A guide to the basic medicinal herbs and their applications. I thought your sister might find it useful. You mentioned that she can't tell the difference between tansy and ragwort."

He swallows hard. He vaguely remembers joking about his sister's housekeeping—which, in fairness, has improved in leaps and bounds since she first became the lady of a manor. Their people look to her for guidance first, even when he's at home, and she's thriving in that role, even if she still hates the more domestic side of running a household. It must have been two years ago that he last mentioned it. And from that passing remark, Clarke has created this beautiful book.

_Nun_ , he reminds himself for the thousandth time. _She's a nun._

"Thank you. This is an incredible gift."

"Thank Jackson," she says. "The medicinal knowledge is mostly his. I simply provided the pictures."

"No, this is perfect—the pictures especially," he argues. "And it's... I don't think I've ever owned something so beautiful. Octavia will love it. Thank you."

Her face smooths as she accepts the compliment at last. "You're welcome," she says, softly. He closes the book again carefully, wrapping the strap around it.

"Or perhaps your wife will find it useful," she teases, turning back to the page she's working on. Bellamy takes advantage of her distraction to grimace. 

A long time ago, before he'd realised the path his heart was taking, he'd told her of his sister's efforts to find him a wife. He understood the necessity, that he must have a son to inherit the lands and secure his people's future, but he'd not found anyone with whom he could contemplate spending his future. And, over the years, every time Clarke had asked, it had been harder and harder not to tell her the reason.

"About that," he says, suddenly acutely aware of the sound of his own voice. "I've found someone at last. Or, Octavia found her, really."

Clarke's hand pauses for just a moment, and then she continues smoothly. "Oh? Should I offer my congratulations?"

"No, not yet. When I return from delivering this final manuscript, I plan to talk to her."

Clarke looks up, and he hurries to explain, feeling like he needs to make some excuse, offer some reason.

"Gina Martin. She's the eldest daughter of one of my neighbours. She's—she's very nice." He felt a pang of guilt for the unfairly faint praise: Gina was intelligent, pretty, softly-spoken, and thoughtful, and he'd enjoyed the little time he'd spent in her company. He held no strong feelings towards her, but probably that would come in time. After all, that had been what had happened with Clarke. It had crept up on him unawares, over time, in a thousand quiet moments. Maybe that's how love works.

And maybe if he keeps telling himself that, eventually his heart will believe it.

"This will be my final trip. After this, I'll have no reason—no need to return here. It seemed..." He breathes out slowly, trying to keep his voice steady. "I thought it was time."

The conversation stalls for a moment, and Clarke's hands trace over the page, seemingly unable to settle. He doesn't know whether to feel glad or frustrated that she looks as shaken as he feels.

At last she looks up. "Well, congratulations," she says, and smiles shakily at him.

He scans her face, committing it to memory. This might be the last time they're alone together. "She might turn me down, you know."

Clarke nods, and her expression turns teasing. "She might. Don't speak to her too much before you make her an offer, and you should be safe."

"Was that a compliment on my looks, or an insult to my conversational skills?"

"It can't be both?"

He ducks his head to hide his grin. 

"But I wish you luck in your courtship," she goes on, softly. "You deserve to be happy."

Bellamy looks up, but can't think of anything that isn't incredibly inappropriate to say _to a nun_. Clarke seems to read something in his eyes, though, because she blushes and looks away. Bellamy clears his throat.

"Thank you."

She comes to see him off, for once, and he sits astride his horse, looking down at her, at a loss for what to say. The horse shifts impatiently, and she reaches up to hold the reins, just above his hand.

"If you're ever passing," she says. 

He nods. "If you ever need anything," he replies.

Her hand moves down to squeeze his fingers fiercely for a moment, before she lets go.

He can feel the phantom warmth as he rides away.

\---

On his way home from delivering the manuscript, he's held up by bandits just south of Thetford, so he's not surprised to find the household in a state of chaos when he finally rides in. Octavia's expression clears when she spots him from across the courtyard.

He throws himself from his weary horse and looks around with sardonic interest. "All this for me? I don't need a rescue party, you know."

"I never thought you did," retorts Octavia. She opens her mouth to continue, but is interrupted by a white shape that flies across the courtyard and hurls itself into Bellamy's arms.

" _Bellamy!_ " wails Pangur. Bellamy catches the little cat automatically, hands closing over too-thin skin and matted fur, feeling the sharp edges of bones.

"Pangur," he says in surprise, and then feels his heart stop. "Clarke," he breathes. "The abbey. What's happened?"

"The Vikings have come," meows Pangur. "Ow, Bellamy, don't hold me so tightly!"

Bellamy loosens his grip, cradling the cat against his chest, and looks up, meeting Octavia's grim gaze. She's buckling on a sword, and the chaos around him makes sense, suddenly. It's not a rescue party for him: they're riding out to save the abbey.

Bellamy tucks Pangur into the crook of his arm and begins to strip the saddle from his horse, fingers stumbling over buckles in his haste. "I'm coming with you, but this horse is done in," he says.

"Look up, big brother," says Octavia, and he looks up, and then up again, breathing a sigh of relief. Miller is looming over him, already mounted, holding the reins of a riderless horse that stamps its hooves impatiently. 

"If we're all going to die, at least let's be doing something really stupid," says Miller.

Bellamy hands his reins to a stable boy, throws Pangur up onto the shoulders of the fresh horse, and hoists himself into the saddle. And just minutes after he's arrived home, he's off again.

Some unknown benefactor has tucked meat and bread into a saddlebag, so as they ride, he feeds himself and Pangur, and gets the full tale from the cat. It's little enough: the first he'd known was the peal of warning bells that woke him from a sound sleep. Abbot Thelonious was already striding back and forth in the courtyard, barking orders to seal up the abbey, and Marcus was ushering the monks, nuns and novices into the church. Clarke had snatched Pangur up from the chaos, and run with him to the gate.

_"Go west,"_ she'd ordered, pushing him through the narrowing gap. _"Find Octavia, Bellamy's sister. Warn her that the Vikings are coming."_

"And then they nearly closed the door on my tail," says Pangur, sinking his claws more deeply into Bellamy's leather vambrace. "The last thing I heard was Clarke, telling me to stay safe. But what about her? Why couldn't she have come with me, and been safe too?"

Bellamy strokes the cat's triangular head with his thumb, eyes fixed on the road ahead. "And leave her people behind? She wouldn't do that."

Pangur presses closer, fearfully. "I ran as fast as I could, but it was so _far_. Will we be in time to save them, do you think?"

Bellamy's stomach clenches. He can't see how it's possible; even though Pangur did his best to get to Octavia, the journey must have taken him days, and the abbey was unarmed. They couldn't have held the invaders off for very long. "I don't know," he lies. "Maybe, if they're lucky. The abbey is a strong building, and mostly stone. It'll be hard to burn."

Hard, but not impossible. They smell the smoke first, see the great, dark plume hovering low over the ground, kept down by the mild drizzle. Pangur buries his head in Bellamy's tunic and refuses to look. They ride forward warily, not knowing if this was just a raiding party or the first of an invading force. But there's no one on the road. No Vikings, no peasants, no clergy. Nothing. Bellamy's heart sinks with every step.

As they ride closer, the extent of the devastation becomes clear. Gone are the familiar buildings, like huts swept away in a gale. The flames have died down, but smoke is spreading, creeping along the ground as it disperses. As they get closer still, he's forced to wrap his damp cloak over his mouth and nose to keep the smoke from his lungs.

He's seen the result of Viking raids before, but he still feels sick as they make their way slowly up the path towards the remains of the abbey gate, swords drawn. No one challenges them, and as they trot into the open courtyard, Bellamy can see clear across the ruined walls down to the beach. There are no ships. It was a raid, not the start of an invasion. The danger has passed. 

He nudges his horse forward, but the creature balks nervously, so he hands the reins to Octavia and dismounts. The others pull to a halt in silence and form a circle, and Bellamy picks his way through stones and charred wood and—worst of all—robed bodies, towards the great building at the centre of the courtyard. The doors are twisted from their hinges, battered and broken. When he looks in, he can see only death and devastation. No one moves, no voices groan for his aid.

Pangur has clawed his way up under Bellamy's cloak, and now sits on his shoulder, shivering as he peers out from under the damp wool. 

"I'm sorry, Pangur," he says, hoarsely. "You did your best. There's nothing—" He breaks off as his throat closes up, and he has to stumble away from the building to throw up.

Pangur kneads his paws comfortingly into Bellamy's shoulders. The soot in the air has darkened his fur, so he's now a smudgy grey color. "Maybe some of them got out," he says, hopefully. "There's a way."

Bellamy looks back sharply, wiping his mouth. "What? A way out? From where? _To_ where?"

"I don't know exactly, but I think it goes down to the beach."

He's back at the horses in a flash. "Bell, I'm sorry—" begins Octavia.

"Secret escape route," he growls, grabbing the reins and boosting himself back onto the horse. "There could be survivors." The odds are against it, but he can't give up on Clarke yet. Not until he's sure.

They hurry down to the beach and ride the horses out onto the grey sand, splitting up at the water's edge. "Search the cliffs for a cave or an opening," he orders. "Listen out for voices."

Octavia and Miller go left with some of the men, and he takes the others and heads right, following the line of the beach. The horses have to stay on the hard-packed sand nearest the water, but Bellamy's eyes are fixed on the cliffs, and he calls out names as he rides, to let them know he's a friend. "Abbot Thelonious! Marcus! John Murphy! _Clarke_!"

There's an answering call, and he pulls his horse up short, listening. It's twilight now, and it's playing tricks with his sight, but is that...?

A figure emerges from the rocks, followed by another. He throws himself from his horse and struggles across the sand to meet them. 

He doesn't recognise the first monk, but the second one looks familiar, and his heart skips. "Marcus," he says, and the man raises a weary head, squinting against the falling light.

"Bell—Bellamy?"

"Yes!" He hurries forward, helping Marcus to sit on a rock. The older man's hands clutch him tightly for a moment, and he's never looked so gratefully at Bellamy before. For what, Bellamy isn't sure. All he's done is turn up too late. "Are you alone?"

"No. Abbot Thelonious—" His voice breaks abruptly, but he forces himself to continue. "Abbot Thelonious told me to take people through the secret passageway. He stayed behind to ensure the door was closed and concealed. He saved many lives."

Marcus waves a hand at the seemingly unbroken cliff-face behind him, smothering a cough. Bellamy makes his way forward, heart in his throat, and finds that when he steps close enough, there's a jutting edge which becomes a crack, which becomes an entrance. Pangur jumps down from his shoulder and runs ahead. Bellamy has to duck and wriggle sideways to get inside, barely able to squeeze himself through.

"It gets bigger in a few—oh!" says Pangur.

"Pangur?" he says, and his alarm kicks up even further when there's no answer. He pushes his way forward, feeling sharp stone cutting through his clothes and skin, until he abruptly emerges in a darkened sort of passageway. "Pangur!"

"Bellamy?" says a familiar voice.

"Wells?"

"Bellamy!"

He's tugged forwards into an embrace that leaves him breathless, and finds Pangur pressed between them. 

"I found them," says Pangur, muffled.

Then there are more voices, and for a moment all is chaos again. It's too dark to see anyone, and he can't pick out Clarke's voice in the general hubbub. "They've gone," he finally calls, making himself heard. "You can come out."

There's no room to pass, so Bellamy squeezes himself back out of the hole first, and watches nervously as soot-blackened and weary people follow him out, and gather on the beach. Some he knows, some are vaguely familiar, some are unknown. But none of them are the face he so desperately hopes to see.

"D'you know what happened to Clarke?" he finally forces himself to ask Wells, who has stationed himself next to Bellamy, Pangur asleep in his arms.

The young monk shakes his head. "She sent us with Marcus," he says. "But I don't know where she went. I looked for her in the cave, but she wasn't there. No one saw what happened to her. She must have stayed and been caught."

Bellamy swallows against the grief and rage tightening his throat. It will have to wait. There are nearly two-dozen people who need his help right now. "At least you're safe," he says. "And so many of the others."

Wells presses his face to the cat's dirty fur. "Maybe she's alive? They may have taken her as a slave. We could still get her back."

This has occurred to Bellamy too, but he doesn't want to raise Wells's hopes, so he just puts a hand on the man's shoulder. "Perhaps."

Octavia gallops up, and looks over the huddled clergy. "We'll have to find someplace for everyone to sleep for tonight," she says. "We'll head back to the manor tomorrow, and they can work out what they want to do from there." Bellamy nods, hoping that his sister won't see his intent to stay until he is sure of Clarke's fate—but Octavia isn't looking at him. Instead, her eyes scan the sea. She raises a hand to shade her eyes, although night has fallen by now. "Is that a boat?"

A frisson of alarm shoots through the assembled people. "The Vikings are back!" calls a trembling voice. 

Marcus gives the speaker a sharp clout on the back of the head as they all peer into the gathering gloom. "It's a rowboat," he says.

Bellamy leaves the crowd behind, drifting towards the water with his hand on his sword hilt. Octavia walks her horse beside him.

"Scouts?"

"Unlikely," he says. "They burned or took everything of value. It's probably just fishermen, coming to see what happened."

They watch as the boat draws slowly closer. There are two figures in the boat: one rowing, and the other sat low in the boat, huddling up against the cold September night with hood drawn up. The rower is broad-shouldered and bald, and Bellamy uneasily notes that he's armed: the gleam of leather and metal is becoming visible. As they get closer, he realises that the other person is in fact two people, sharing one heavy cloak.

A gust of wind catches the hood, throwing it back, and Bellamy's treacherous heart skips a beat. Two heads of hair blow in the wind for a moment, one dark and one blonde.

It can't... it can't be... 

But irrepressible hope rises as the boat gets closer still, and features begin to resolve in the low light of the rising moon, until he finds himself striding out into the shallows as the prow grinds into the sand, and reaching over the bows to yank Clarke bodily into his arms. He closes his eyes as she hugs him back, just as tightly. Then she leans back and smirks— _smirks_ —at him.

"The Vikings are gone," she says.

After he's helped the rower—a silent, hulking man with Viking tattoos, who could probably snap Bellamy like a twig—pull the boat in to shore and carry Clarke and the other woman to dry land, and Pangur has greeted her with frantic relief, they get the story from her. Wrapped again in the shared cloak, with Pangur purring on her lap, and looking more weary than he's ever seen her, Clarke puts one arm around her companion, a dark-haired woman who is damp with seawater, as though she'd taken a dunking. She is shivering uncontrollably.

"This is Raven. Lincoln." She nods at the man. "They helped me."

"To escape?" asks Marcus, handing her a leather cup of wine from the supplies Bellamy and Octavia brought. It's been warmed over the fire, and Clarke passes it to Raven first.

"To win," corrects Clarke. "We broke the rudder, and ran the ship into the rocks. Lincoln saved the rowboat and got us to safety."

Behind him, people murmur in shock. Bellamy knows how they feel. "Clarke..." He doesn't know whether he wants to tell her that she's amazing, or that she took a terrible risk. He shakes his head in awe. 

Clarke seems to hear the concern in his voice, anyhow, because she raises her eyebrows at him. "Well, I wasn't about to let them trade me as a slave," she says, pointedly. "What else could I do?"

"I—" Just in time, he remembers they have an audience, and closes his teeth over the words, flushing. _I would have come for you. No matter how far away they took you, I would have found you and brought you home._

But Clarke hears this, too, and her expression softens as she looks at him. 

"Sister Clarke," says Marcus, recalling her attention. "Taking lives is not the way of our order."

Clarke smiles sunnily at him, apparently unperturbed by the reprimand. "I know. It's alright. I'm done being a nun anyway."

And then she looks at Bellamy with clear intent, audience be damned, and Bellamy feels himself flush hot and cold all over.

Marcus coughs uncomfortably. Raven, who has been silent up until now, snorts, and gives Bellamy a mocking look. "I guess someone's in luck," she says. Clarke grins fondly at her, and then takes the wine and sips it nonchalantly, as though she's not just turned Bellamy's world upside-down. 

" _Sister_ —"

"Just Clarke," she corrects.

"Clarke. It's been a difficult time." Marcus shoots Bellamy a sideways look. "Don't make any rash decisions."

"This decision has been a long time coming, Marcus, don't worry. I won't change my mind."

Bellamy makes a strangled noise, and stares fixedly at the fire. There's no privacy, so they can't talk now. But they are definitely due a long and honest conversation.

\---

The journey back to his manor is much slower. The horses are given to the oldest or most injured members of the order, and Bellamy finds himself walking. Octavia draws alongside him, making up for her shorter legs by an excess of energy, and smirks at him.

"Nice torc."

Pangur has apparently decided to travel with him, by dint of draping himself over Bellamy's shoulders and falling asleep. Bellamy gives his sister a sour look. "He's been very busy lately, and he's only—"

"Calm down, Bell, that wasn't a criticism. I think it's adorable that he's so fond of you." She throws a glance over her shoulder, to where Clarke is walking, further down the line. "Speaking of which..."

"Octavia," says Bellamy, warningly. 

"I didn't say anything!" she protests. "You're so sensitive today." She's silent for a moment, and Bellamy waits her out. "I was just thinking about the wedding feast I'm supposed to prepare for you, now that your travels have come to an end."

"You know I haven't spoken to Gina yet," he reminds her.

"I know." Octavia stares at him, waiting.

Finally, Bellamy sighs, and glances around to check that no one is listening. "And I won't," he admits, voice low. "Not if... but I need time to work it out. And privacy," he adds, waving surreptitiously at the crowd of people around them.

Octavia hums. "She seems nice," she offers, and he knows she doesn't mean Gina. 

"She's..." He trails off, trying to think of the words. "She gave me a book," he says, belatedly remembering that he'd not unpacked his saddlebags. "It's a gift for you—well, for the manor, really. I'll show you, when we get home. It's an herbal. She made it, and illustrated all the plants." He'd pored over it during his journey, whenever he'd had a quiet moment, and was pretty sure he had it memorised.

"That was kind of her. She must—"

"Octavia," he says, pained. "Can we not talk about this?"

"Fine, _fine_ ," she sighs, throwing up her hands. "No one can say I didn't offer you a shoulder to cry on."

"Thanks," he says, mouth twisted. "Really. Your help is always appreciated."

They fall into a comfortable silence as they continue walking. 

Bellamy's mind drifts, and he's in an almost trancelike state of putting one foot in front of the other, when there's a sudden flash of pain. "Oops," says Octavia, who has fallen back and _trodden on his heel_ , like a _child_. She nips quickly past him when he stops, and gives him a careless wave. 

He's too busy glaring at her and plotting his revenge to notice people passing him by, until someone touches his elbow. "Are you okay?"

He startles, and looks down at Clarke. "Yes, I..." It comes to him, in a flash, that Octavia is giving him an opportunity—in typically violent fashion. "It's nothing. Just a scrape." He steps to the side of the road to remove his boot, and Clarke stays with him as the caravan of people winds its way past them. His ankle is bleeding slightly, and he is going to strangle Octavia, because they have a few good miles still ahead, and a scraped heel is just enough to be irksome, but nowhere near enough to require a seat on a horse.

Clarke hands him a wadded piece of cloth, and he presses it to his heel, wedging it back into his boot so that the cloth stays put. By the time he's got it situated to his satisfaction, the bulk of the parade has passed. In wordless agreement, they wait out the last few stragglers before falling in behind.

It's possible he exaggerates his limp, just to slow them down and give them a little more distance. But no one could prove it.

For several minutes, they walk in silence. And then, of course, they both start speaking at once.

"So you—"

"Have you—"

They smile at each other. Clarke has long since lost her wimple, and her curly blonde hair falls in rich tangles around her shoulders. She looks different—more relaxed, but at the same time, it somehow reminds him that she's the daughter of kings, a noblewoman, with a birthright far above his own. As a nun, he could talk to her—but as a woman, he's having a little difficulty. 

But her eyes are the same bright, teasing blue, and they give him confidence. "You go first," she says.

He shakes his head. "Honestly, I was just trying to start a conversation," he admits. He remembers something, and smiles. "And after you warned me that was no way to impress a pretty girl, too," he adds, voice lowered. To his great delight, this makes her blush. "What were you going to say?"

She shoots him a challenging look. "I was going to ask if you'd made Gina an offer," she says. 

"No. I reached home to find everyone riding out to the abbey. I didn't stop to change, never mind decide my future." He frowns. He's basing this flirtation on some speaking looks—but what if it's wishful thinking, and he's misinterpreted her meaning? "Should I?"

He can't read the look she gives him. "Do you want to?"

"I asked first." 

She purses her lips in annoyance. "That's not for me to decide, Bellamy."

He gives her a frustrated look, and she sighs.

"I'd rather you didn't," she admits, and his frustration disappears, like magic. He gives her a grin that must look particularly stupid, because her face relaxes into a smile once more. 

Pangur stretches on his shoulders, and repositions himself more comfortably. "I think I'll enjoy being a housecat," he says, as if he's been considering the matter. "Abbeys are far too exciting, in my personal experience."

Bellamy tries to give the cat a glare, but he's too close and it makes his eyes cross. "You're coming to live with me, then?"

"Well, of course. I have many useful skills, if you're worried I'll get bored. I can keep your barns free of delicious mice."

"I have a colony of cats who do that already. And they don't talk back."

"Hmm. Then I'll just have to be a beloved housepet," decides Pangur. 

"Oh, will you?"

"Well, if Clarke's going to live there, I can hardly leave her behind, can I?"

Bellamy shoots Clarke a quizzical look, and she laughs, and leans her face briefly against his shoulder. Their fingers tangle and catch. "No, I guess not," he says, feeling warm all the way through. "Thanks for clearing that up, Pangur."

"Mmr. You're welcome," says Pangur—and promptly goes to sleep.

\---

END.


End file.
